Slave to the Crown
Slave to the Crown by Katica Locke *Genre: Erotic fantasy *Length: 22,300 *Price: $4.50 *Rating: Mature *Warning: M/M sexual content, dubious consent *Link: Slave to the Crown by Katica Locke 'Summary' Mair is the half-faerie son of the goblin king's sister, a product of rape at the hands of their enemy, the sidhe, and the last person that the goblin horde wants to see sit upon the throne. When the king is killed in battle and all of his sons die squabbling for the crown, Mair finds himself the sole heir to the throne--a position that he neither wants nor is likely to survive. To make matters worse, he is presented with a slave to see to his needs--a mute sidhe soldier captured in battle--and Mair is again reminded of how much he resembles the enemy. The sidhe, Zakatri, is not as stupid and bloodthirsty as Mair expects, and they strike an uneasy alliance. If Zak can keep Mair alive until the coronation ceremony, Mair will grant the faerie his freedom in return. But will his bitter and vengeful half-goblin heart allow Mair to keep his promise, or will Zak's only reward be a goblin dagger between his ribs? Forced to share his bed with the bound and naked slave in order to keep up pretenses, Mair suffers a moment of weakness and succumbs to the desires of the flesh, never imagining the consequences of this one thoughtless act. 'Intro' Flickering firelight danced across the finely wrought sidhe dagger as Mair lifted it from the pile of weapons scavenged from the corpses left in the wake of that morning’s battle. He turned it back and forth in his hands, feeling the weight and balance. The hilt was silver and gold, studded with emeralds, the blade silver and bearing several nicks and scratches. That was one drawback to being unable to wield iron; sidhe blades were prone to damage. Turning to the anvil, he braced the hilt against the block and picked up his hammer. One swift blow snapped the blade clean off, the room ringing with a clear, sweet note. Mair picked up the silver blade and tossed it into a bin with several others, and then sat down at his worktable and began to pry the gems loose from their settings. The stones would be crated up and shipped to Debringmas, sold to a dealer who would most likely sell them back to the same sidhe tribe that made these elaborate, but ultimately useless, weapons. Dropping the emeralds into an open barrel of vinegar to soak the blood off, Mair moved back to the pile, kicking aside a broken poleax and picking up another ornamental silver dagger, this one etched with the delicate wings of a butterfly. Mair rolled his shoulders, feeling his knobby wing ridges rub against the inside of his shirt. Scowling, he cleaved the blade from its hilt. Faeries had wings; goblins did not. As he sat down at his table, a sound in the corridor drew his attention and he turned in his chair as Shuruk, the king’s steward, strode into the room. Mair’s eyes were drawn to the heavy, curled horns growing out of Shuruk’s head and curving behind his large, pendulous ears, the tips sweeping up alongside his heavy jaw, ending at the corners of his mottled green and black lips. The horns had ancient goblin writing burned into them, denoting Shuruk’s position of power. Mair had no horns, a fact that Shuruk never let him forget. The goblin steward’s large, moss green eyes roved over Mair’s bare head before dropping to meet his gaze. “The king is dead,” Shuruk said, his greenish-gray skin pale and damp with sweat, making him look remarkably like a gaunt toad. “He succumbed to injuries sustained in battle today and died screaming almost an hour ago.” “I’m glad,” Mair said. “May his soul raise hell on the Eternal Battlefield.” He turned away and picked up his shiny steel pick, careful to keep his fingers on the worn wooden handle. Cold iron didn’t burn him like it would a true sidhe, but it stung and left welts. He pried at a large opal, waiting for Shuruk to leave, but the steward stepped farther into the room instead. “What?” Mair asked, his tone clipped. “If my mother thinks that pig deserves more honor from me, she can come down here and drag me to his corpse herself.” He shifted his feet under the table, feeling a pulling through the ugly scar upon his thigh where his uncle, the king, had tried to eat him when he was three. Only the fact that Mair’s mother was also the king’s sister had saved him. That and a heavy iron candlestick upside the king’s head. “I also bring news of your cousin, King-to-be Roult--” “Oh, right,” Mair said and he sighed. “Convey my delight at his good fortune and tell him I’ll be up to personally beg for my life later. I’m in the middle of something.” “Roult is also dead,” Shuruk said, and Mair’s hand slipped, the opal flying free of its setting and shattering against the stone wall. “How?” Mair asked, turning to look at the steward once again. “His brother, King-to-be Drung, slit his throat--” “Naturally,” Mair muttered, but Shuruk wasn’t finished. “Drung received a dagger between the ribs, but not before he stabbed King-to-be Loragg in the gut. Loragg died moments ago.” Mair groaned and rubbed a grimy hand over his face. “Stupid, greedy assholes,” he said. “I don’t have that many more cousins.” “Huk, and he’s only eleven.” Now it was Shuruk’s turn to sigh. “Which makes you the next King-to-be. Congratulations, King Culmair. Your mother--” “Wait,” Mair said, rising to his feet. “What did you say? I’m king?” “Yes,” Shuruk said, looking like he’d swallowed a bad piece of meat. “As the eldest living male descendant of the Gartuk bloodline, you are the new king of the Ang Mountain goblin horde...assuming you live long enough to be crowned, of course.” Category:Books